“BRER REMUS, is you heern tell er deze doin’s out yer in de
udder eend er town?” asked a eolored deacon of the church the
other day.
“W’at doin’s is dat, Brer Ab?”
“Deze yer signs an’ wunders whar dat cullud lady died day ’fo’
yistiddy. Mighty quare goin’s on out dar, Brer Remus, sho’s you
bawn.”
“Sperrits?” inquired Uncle Remus, sententiously.
“Wuss’n dat, Brer Remus. Some say dat jedgmentday ain’t fur off,
an’ de folks is flockin’ ’roun’ de house a hollerin’ an’ a shoutin’ des
like dey wuz in er revival. In de winder glass dar you kin see de
flags a flyin’, an’ Jacob’s lather is dar, an’ dar’s writin’ on de pane
w’at no man can’t read-leas’wise dey ain’t none read it yit.”
“W’at kinder racket is dis youer givin’ un me now, Brer Ab?”
“I done bin dar, Brer Remus; I done seed urn wid bofe my eyes.
Cullud lady what wuz intranced done woke up an’ say dey ain’t
much time fer ter tarry.
She say she meet er angel in de road, an’ he p’inted straight fer de
mornin’ star, an’ tell her fer ter prepar’. Hit look mighty cu’us, Brer
Remus.”
“Cum down ter dat, Brer Ab,” said Uncle Remus, wiping his
spectacles carefully, and readjusting them—“
dey ain’t nuthin’ dat ain’t cu’us. I ain’t no spishus nigger myse’f, but
I ’spizes fer ter year dogs a howlin’ an’ squinch-owls havin’ de ager
out in de woods, an’ w’en a bull goes a bellerin’ by de house den
my bones git cole an’ my flesh cornmences fer ter creep; but w’en
it comes ter deze yer sines in de a’r an’ deze yer sperrits in de
woods, den I’m out—den I’m done. I is, fer a fack. I bin livin’ yer
more’n seventy year, an’ I year talk er niggers seein’ ghos’es all
times er night an’ all times er day, but I ain’t never seed none yit;
an’ deze yer flags an’ Jacob’s lathers, I ain’t seed dem, nudder.”
“Dey er dar, Brer Remus.”
“Hit’s des like I tell you, Brer Ab. I ain’t ’sputin’ ’bout it, but I ain’t
seed um, an’ I don’t take no chances deze days on dat w’at I don’t
see, an’ dat w’at I sees I got ter ’zamine mighty close. Lemme tell
you dis, Brer Ab: don’t you let deze sines onsettle you. W’en old
man Gabrile toot his ho’n, he ain’t gwinter hang no sine out in de
winder-panes, an when ole Fadder Jacob lets down dat lather er
his’n you’ll be mighty ap’ fer ter hear de racket. An’ don’t you
bodder wid jedgment-day. Jedgment-day is lierbul fer ter take keer
un itse’f.”
“Dat’s so, Brer Remus.”
“Hit’s bleedzed ter be so, Brer Ab. Hit don’t bodder me. Hit’s done
got so now dat w’en I gotter pone er bread, an’ a rasher er bacon,
an’ nuff grease fer ter make gravy, I ain’t keerin’ much w’edder
fokes sees ghos’es er no.”
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